


what we deserve

by lisewrites



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, and eve has had enough of pretending to not want her, and swearing, sleepy soft shit, soft needy villanelle, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisewrites/pseuds/lisewrites
Summary: “But I deserve to be kissed nicely. I want you to kiss me nicely Eve.”
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 64
Kudos: 437





	1. Chapter 1

She remembers, just as she slides out of consciousness once more, that something important had happened.  
Something monumental is hanging around the fuzzy edges of her mind, throwing a long shadow across her twisting body. Her pounding head sinks deeper into the pillows as she turns.  
The sheets are too hot. Or her skin is too hot below the sheets. Too hot too hot too hot. Stifling. She tugs them down and away from her chest.  
Something Important, capital I, Important, had happened.  
Something that is now throwing a long shadow beneath the flickering lightbulb in the communal hallway. Linoleum and hard-soled shoes.

Her head throbs.

There are footsteps. Tap tap tap, it’s peaceful. The steps are light. As though they’re speaking a different language entirely to her landlady's slippered-shuffle.  
Eve’s eyes flutter closed.

And her hand tightens instinctively around the little oddly-shaped piece of plastic pressing against her palm.  
There is a voice now, lilting over words which have lost all meaning, morphing into little more than shapes and the lazy movements of a slow, wet tongue caught into stuttering digital code, and then released in compressions and rarefactions of the stale air in Eve’s bedroom.  
She can feel the words. Colliding with her flesh. Under her diaphragm. In her chest. Against her, under her, inside her-

Losing all meaning. They’re losing all meaning, or perhaps the battle is already lost. Either way, Eve twists. Her body is still too heavy. Sleep catching against her limbs, pulling them down down down to the mattress, she’s not slept properly in what feels like years.  
The plastic in her hand gives her something to hold on to, something to hold, and like an infant with a pacifier, she’s finally soothed. She hasn’t slept like this since before Rome, maybe even before Paris, perhaps before she stepped out of a hospital bathroom blushing and into a bloodbath-

“Admit it Eve-”

The robot’s voice sounds tinny. It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing.  
She sinks deeper. Deeper into her pillow. Hair spread around her. There’s something scratching. Something Important.  
And there’s a shadow in her bedroom now, and a faint scent of something deep, musky, and Eve is simultaneously being pressed back into the rough pile of the seats of a 46 bus to St Barts and crouching in the bathrooms in Paris’ Gare du Nord, scrubbing at the crumbling dried blood which had somehow seeped under her short fingernails.

God, this might be the best dream she’s ever had.  
The Something Important smells like sex. And the heat of Villanelle’s lithe body under hers, shifting, bleeding.  
Her blood was hot and wet against her hands. Sticky and alive.  
And now her right hand presses against her own breast, dropping to her hipbone which pushes up through her flesh. The waistband of her shorts is too loose. She doesn’t need to think, she doesn’t need to open her eyes, she just needs to, she needs to, needs to press-

Her own touch hits her with all the force of a fall from a ten story building. And she is met with sliding heat, not wet concrete.

“What are you doing Eve?”

Her eyes fly open.  
This should be when she wakes. When she jerks upright in an empty room, alone save for watered-down moonlight spilling across her bedsheets. Pouring across the coffee stains and the dotted dried blood and the smeared-  
This should be when she wakes from the best dream she’s ever ran her fingertips against. She should sink back into the pillows and finish herself, alone and gasping into the skin of her own wrist. Still hot with the soft red bruises Villanelle’s fingers had made whilst pinning her down, pressing her down, pressing her back against-

“Eve?”

But Villanelle is there. Taller and broader and more exquisitely beautiful in life than she could ever be in a fantasy. Hot and vital and alive.  
She had known, of course, in a far-off recess of her mind, that Villanelle was there. Of course. In the same way that Villanelle is always there now, has taken up permanent residence rent-free in almost every aspect of Eve’s life. Creeping along the corners of every single one of her thoughts, quirking an eyebrow as she inspects their edges.  
But seeing her, tall and broad and chin tilting upwards, at the foot of her bed feels like a kick directly to her chest. A foot on her sternum. Eve gasps. The tips of her fingers are wet.  
Villanelle’s lip twitches.

“Are you masturbating?” A lilt of curiosity threading through her voice now, the shadow under her jaw is tight and somehow hard.

“Uh. Uh.” Eve says intelligently. And then “fuck off.”  
Villanelle takes a step closer. Her eyes are dark and somehow faster than usual, flitting between the pink plastic heart still resting in Eve’s open palm, to the way Eve snatches her other hand from under the waistband of her shorts, to the mostly-empty bottle of wine beside the bed.

Villanelle’s left hand opens and closes around itself, a fist forming and falling apart once again. She steps forward and reaches down for the wine bottle, and brings it to her lips. She takes a swig, and Eve watches from the mattress as her throat bobs once, and again.  
She’s wincing, frowning as she draws the bottle away from her lips.

“That is not good wine. Not good at all.”

“I have something else in the fridge.” Eve is vaguely aware that this is probably not the right response, but god, she is tired, and she is trying to wipe her sticky fingers against her already stained sheets without drawing too much attention to herself. She draws her knees up to her chest, and watches as Villanelle crosses her studio apartment to the fridge.

Backlit by the cheap florescent lightbulb, she looks almost otherworldly. She’s wearing something ridiculous, of course. The suit from earlier now discarded, and instead replaced with some silky laced slip dress in the hottest of pinks, the lace gathered high around her throat and the silk cut high around the whiteness of her thighs, a boxy huge jacket thrown around her shoulders, all pockets, shapeless and a little ugly and dark.

Her body was certainly not made for lounging against a Kelvinator fridge in a £800-a-month studio in the fuck-end of north London. Perhaps not made for the 21st century at all, for there is something almost regal in the set of her jaw and the arch of her brow. A creature made for high stone walls and narrow cobbled streets, for smoke in the sky and fire in the hearth, and a chorus swelling in the high, old places of the earth.  
(Eve feels the same swelling within her own chest.)

This beautiful, flimsy, ageless girl is now rifling through Eve’s fridge, petulant, and turning her nose up at a screw-topped bottle of white wine. Her long fingers flex as she grasps at the top, and opens it, again forgoing a glass and drinking it right there, wincing, in the refrigerator light.

“Sometimes you have good taste, very good. But sometimes you buy £6 wine.”

“I like it.” A pause, as Villanelle takes another long swig. Soft tendrils of blonde hair fall around her face, framing her delicate features prettily. Eve is wet. “I thought I told you to fuck off, not come in here and drink my fucking wine.”

“I’ve had a very long day Eve. Someone head-butted me on a bus.” Her beautiful body slumps slightly against the refrigerator.

“Perhaps you fucking shot someone and left them for dead. Or perhaps next time you should take the tube.”

Villanelle seems to consider this for a moment, tilting her head and taking another swig of the wine. “No. No, you’re right, shooting someone isn’t a very kind thing to do, even if they hurt you first. But perhaps kissing someone when they weren’t expecting it isn’t a very kind thing to do either.”

Eve takes a moment to consider them both. Villanelle slouching against the opposite wall, and herself, crumbled into her own body, sheets still pulled up around her on the bed. Facing each other with nothing between them but two terrible acts of violence, revenge and retaliation and the greying carpet of Eve’s studio flat. Eve can feel her heart pulse in every inch of her body as Villanelle’s eyes roam greedily, over her face, her curling hair falling over her shoulders, the flimsy white t-shirt, translucent with age, covering her body. Eve has to clear her throat a little before she manages to speak.

“What were you expecting? What do you want from me Villanelle, why are you even here?”

“I want to know why you kissed me. I didn’t expect…” Her eyes, pitch-black in the darkness, flit down to Eve’s chest.  
Eve is vaguely aware that there is something dried sticking against her lip and cheek as she frowns, it’s uncomfortably tightening against her skin. Drool, she realises, as she presses the back of her wrist against her cheek. It doesn’t quite wipe away. She cannot quite bring herself to care.

“I didn’t expect, I didn’t think that you would be sleeping now.” Villanelle looks down as she speaks, her tongue flipping slowly over the words. Eve thinks that maybe this is the first time she’s ever heard Villanelle fumble as she speaks. She is usually so poised, so proper, so direct. The creature slumped against her fridge is none of these.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night Villanelle, what else would I be doing?”  
Villanelle doesn’t quite shrug, it’s more of a twitch of her shoulder, but Eve realises with that movement, that Villanelle hadn’t been able to sleep. The pink slip and the shrugged-on jacket suddenly smash into place. They make sense. Villanelle hadn’t been able to sleep. Villanelle had been lying awake, undoubtably thinking of her.  
And now, Villanelle was here.

Villanelle is suddenly moving, she crosses the room towards Eve as though propelled by a silent momentum, a gale-force wind in her sails, and with somehow too much energy for her slight frame, it pours from her skin. Villanelle, quite simply, glows. It takes her five steps, six steps, and then she sinks simply to her knees before Eve. Her eyes are dark and sincere, looking up at Eve beseechingly. Eve thinks she could drown in the dark wetness of those eyes, her brows scrunching together as the blackness in her eyes threatens to overflow. Spilling and suddenly vulnerable. No longer haughty and ageless. This is a young girl, soft and spoilt, her hands fiddling with her hair, and then fingertips glancing against her own bruised cheekbone.

“Look at my head. I think you should look at what you did to me Eve. It wasn’t a kind thing to do.”

Eve shuffles closer to her, her back no longer pressed against her far bedroom wall, to the edge of her mattress. She stretches her legs out, until Villanelle is kneeling between her legs.  
She touches the tips of two fingers, two fingers which moments before were sliding over her clit, still tacky with her own arousal, two fingers, she brings two fingers to Villanelle’s cheekbone and touches. The angry red marks there.

“Are you going to say sorry?” Villanelle’s voice is soft, coming scratching from the back of her throat.  
Eve is keenly aware that she is wet. So wet she can feel her underwear sticking uncomfortably to her. There’s a dull, bored ache between her legs begging for something, anything, but preferably the press of two or perhaps three of Villanelle’s long fingers as she moves atop her. Her skin feels hot and too sensitive and she knows, she knows that this is most probably some kind of trap but she absolutely cannot bring herself to care. Her only thought is of Villanelle’s lips level to her stomach, and the excited twist of heat that the thought brings.

“I shouldn’t have head butted you, I should’ve fucking stabbed you again.” She barely recognises her own voice when there’s no fire behind her words, and her lips tremble as Villanelle drops her head to the side without breaking eye contact, her soft blonde hair falling over her face, and rests her injured cheek against the softness of Eve’s bare thigh.

“I’m not asking for an apology for that. I want you to say sorry for kissing me.”

“No you don’t, that’s what you’ve wanted this whole time.”

“But I deserve to be kissed nicely. I want you to kiss me nicely Eve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can someone please tell me how eve can afford her own flat on a freelance assassin-chaser wage? im asking for a friend.
> 
> (im hellolise on tumblr blah blah come say hi)


	2. Chapter 2

_“But I deserve to be kissed nicely. I want you to kiss me nicely Eve.”_

Eve feels nuclear-powered. She feels as though her body is emanating more energy than the sun. Burning, burning, burning up. She shifts. Below her, between her parted legs, Villanelle’s lips part invitingly. She feels hot, she feels her skin prickle with this new, barely contained energy. Never before in her life has she been so aware of her own body, the radical humaness of the shift of her muscles, the pulse of her heart.  
She feels absolutely everything in the kind of glaring high-definition which would, once upon a time, have left her lightheaded with fear.  
But now?

  
Now Villanelle is below her, blinking slowly up at her. Pink lips parting prettily, a shade lighter than the violent, offensive pinkness of her dress. Pretty pretty pretty girl.

Villanelle is licking at her own lips. Eyes dark in the moonlight. Running her quick pink pink pink tongue across her lower lip, and darting it into the sensitive corner of her mouth. Never breaking eye contact with Eve. Eve wants to surge forwards and capture that pink lip between her teeth. She wants to do something, anything, with all this foreign energy coursing through her body. She wants the exact opposite of the closed-mouth cold-hot-cold press of Villanelle atop her on the 46 to St Barts. Then, her fist had closed around the softness of Villanelle’s white t-shirt. She had needed something to hold on to. On the bus it had been her closed fist and Villanelle’s closed lips and she is so, so, so exhausted of holding everything back. Restrained. Back straight. Holding her gaping chest closed.

  
She wants to be over Villanelle, above her, her mouth wide open, her hands stretched out wide too, trying desperately to touch as much of her as possible. And gasping, breathless, gasping into Villanelle’s mouth as her tongue does something beautiful, something clever, something wet, inside her mouth. She wants to feel Villanelle rewiring her brain. She wants to be altogether altered by Villanelle’s hand. Pulled apart and put back together into some new kind of shape. Permanently changed. As if the scarring to her shoulder and the ghost of a bullet ripping though her flesh every time she closed her eyes weren't quite enough.  
She’s not sure that she’ll ever, quite, get enough.  
What she wants, what she wants so desperately, is for Villanelle to crack open her ribcage once more and allow everything foul-smelling within her body to pour out.

Villanelle, of course, breaks the prickling silence.

“Are you going to kiss me Eve, or is it my turn to go first this time?”

She turns her cheek, too fast, as though flinching away from a slap, and presses a single kiss to the inside of Eve’s thigh. Just above the knee. Where her skin is the whitest. Softest. Paper-thin. Cut across by the illiterate violence of a blue scribble of a vein.  
Eve’s pulse thrums across her skin, directly under Villanelle’s lips.

  
“There.” Villanelle pulls her lips away from Eve’s thigh, her eyes dropping to look at the wet smudge of saliva she’d left there, as though inspecting her handiwork. Her lip quirks up at the corner. Childish and spoilt and hot behind the ears and pleased with herself. Eve feels the kiss burn, surprised that the moisture of Villanelle’s spit isn’t rising up from her flesh as steam. She feels. Hot.

“There, I was nice and nobody got headbutted. Now it’s your turn.”

“No, now we’re even” Eve murmurs, her words drawing Villanelle’s eyes away from her thigh, up, up along her body to meet her own.  
She feels the drag of Villanelle’s gaze like a physical touch.

  
Villanelle is rising on her knees, stretching up towards her. Lips parting prettily.  
A snake ready to strike. And there is something hot rising at the back of Eve’s throat. Something dangerously akin to vomit. Hot, bringing a threat of tears springing to the corners of her eyes. Villanelle still doesn’t touch her.

  
(Eve wants, wants so desperately, to be touched.)

“No, that’s not fair Eve. I want you to do it again.”

“You want me to do it the same as before? I thought you weren’t happy that I messed up your pretty face?”

“No!” Villanelle is pouting up at her. Eve realises, absently, that she is cupping Villanelle’s cheek against her palm. Her skin is almost unbearably soft, but a little greasy; the residual grime of the city and the sticky heat of the tube clinging to her pores. She runs her thumb slowly over Villanelle’s cheekbone. Her instinctive need to touch Villanelle softly doesn’t shock her as much as it probably should.

Villanelle stretches languidly. Her eyes flutter shut. She glows, to be treated this softly. She breathes out, long and slow, in almost a low purr.

“Tell me what you want then."

The next breath Villanelle takes is almost a whine. Eve feels the noise hit her, directly, between her legs.

“I want to feel it this time. A kiss is supposed to be nice, and I like nice things.” Here Villanelle pulls a long breath into her chest and holds it there for a moment, as though attempting to calm herself. Her voice remains perfectly steady. There is no flicker of emotion running wild over her beautiful, beautiful face. Yet she seems to need a moment to collect herself. And then continues. “It was too fast. You didn’t let me enjoy it enough, not properly. It was too fast, I want to feel it this time, you didn’t give me a chance to…”

Villanelle’s voice drops away. Eve thinks, perhaps, she knows what Villanelle means to say. Thinks that for the first time since all this started, since Villanelle came into her life and expanded to fit into every corner of her world, that they are no longer both staring at the back of a printed page, trying to make out the words. That they are, maybe, finally on the same page.

Arching her back, Villanelle turns her head once more, pressing a single kiss into the hot centre of Eve’s palm.  
Everything, absolutely everything, within Eve melts away.

“You just want a kiss?” Eve murmurs to her. Her precious, precocious girl. “Not try to kill me again?”

“Yes.” Eve feels the word lay heavy in her hand. She cradles it for a second. She feels Villanelle’s lips curl and then press into the word, forming it with some kind of care. Villanelle takes another breath. “And no, no killing. Eve, I want you to make it up to me.”

Villanelle rises on her knees then, until they are almost perfectly face to face. Loose blonde hair falling about her cheeks, and Eve’s still-beating heart falling through her ribcage.

Her world narrows, condensing down at an almost frightening speed, to contain nothing but the two of them, and the dozen square inches of adhesive air between their chests. Eve can feel the air clinging, sticking to her chest. Her skin feels feverish to the touch. She has waited so long for this.  
Or maybe it had always been that way, right from the start, too hot to touch, and she was only now realising it. Now that there was nothing and nobody in between them. No strings pulling them apart. No distractions and no Italian sun and no-

“Yes.”

Villanelle’s lips taste of Eve’s cheap wine. Red wine from beside the bed and the white wine in the fridge.  
Red and white and something violently pink.  
The kiss is chaste for perhaps a fraction of a second, and then Villanelle licks her tongue into Eve’s mouth and breathes as though she is drowning, and Eve is completely lost at sea.

The kiss isn’t fireworks exploding behind Eve’s closed eyelids, it’s soft tendrils of fire creeping up her body from the base of her spine. It’s a breath pulled from the very back of her throat that she’s been holding for hours, for months, since the hospital or the hospital before that or the first time a girl had given her goosebumps by simply calling her name across the playground. It’s Villanelle’s hands rising to either side of her face, but not touching, not just yet. Just waiting. As though Villanelle doesn’t know where to touch first.  
Eve wants to be touched everywhere.

“Villanelle-”

“Uh huh” Villanelle breathes out, and kisses her again, tongue first.

Hot and a little sloppy and a little wet and more than a little unrestrained. Already half wild with something dangerously akin to want. And Villanelle hasn’t even touched her yet.  
The thought lights a fire at the base of Eve’s skull.  
Eve feels her skin prickle, the palms of her hands itch with sweat, and she tugs at Villanelle, tugging her up, pulling her towards her.

“Sofa?” Villanelle gasps, her eyes flying open. And Eve glows, to have reduced quick, sharp-tongued Villanelle into this monosyllabic creature of want.  
How many languages does Villanelle speak? Eight perhaps, and none of them Korean. Eve thinks she could teach her to sound out new syllables, guiding Villanelle’s tongue with her own. Or she thinks perhaps Villanelle could kneel between her legs like this, and teach her French.

“Sofa? No, what the fuck, bed, bed, come here-”

There’s a hot, twisting moment. Villanelle’s ugly, oversized jacket is slid to the floor. Eve isn’t sure if she’s the one who pushed it from Villanelle’s sloping shoulders, but she hears it hit the plasticy faux-wood floorboards.  
And then Villanelle’s shoulders hit the mattress. Hair haloing across the sheets, her head not on the pillows but about halfway down the bed. Her knees fall apart, pink slip sliding up white thighs, moonlight falling across her body.

Eve is above her, over her.  
Spilling across her like the moonlight.  
And still somehow between her legs.  
On her lips she can still taste Villanelle’s breath.  
She feels too hot, too wet, not close enough. Never quite close enough.  
She reaches down, and swipes her thumb at Villanelle’s nipple. Already hard, through the silk of her slip. She touches once, and then again.  
Villanelle arches up against her, mewling, a shadow of a moan caught in the back of her throat. One hand on the back of Eve’s neck, pulling her down, down against her. Eve feels their bodies collide like nuclear fusion and Villanelle’s next gasping words send shockwaves through her body.

“Will you tell me I’m pretty again, like before? Please Eve?”

“What? No, what the fuck?” She still draws slow circles against one of Villanelle’s nipples, and then the other, leaning down to kiss at her neck. And then suck. A hot red mark springs to her skin. Eve feels the way Villanelle moves against her in her cunt.

“Please Eve, I need-” Villanelle squirms below her on the sheets, grabbing a fistful of the material, and it’s pooling as she pulls it from the corner of the mattress. Eve licks at where she can feel Villanelle’s pulse jump under her lips. She leaves a darker mark there. Purpling into a bruise. Villanelle is whining, hot and low and oh-so fucking needy, and there are nails in her back now, through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. She can feel her own arousal slick against herself as she moves down Villanelle’s body.

She wonders if Villanelle is just as fucking wet.  
Her fingertips meet the hem of the slip, and she looks up at Villanelle. Silently seeking her permission.  
Villanelle’s eyes are crushed closed.  
There’s something wrong, something suddenly unsteady about her breathing.

“Vill-”

“Do you not think I’m pretty Eve? Other women think I’m pretty, they tell me I’m pretty. Other women talk to me about how beautiful I am.”

“You know how pretty you are, you don’t need me to tell you. You already know.”

Eve pulls herself back up to be over her, fingertips soft and palm open as she smooths Villanelle’s hair away from her face. She still doesn’t open her eyes, and there’s the faintest tremor of her lower lip as she nuzzles her face against Eve’s touch. Eve drops a kiss, and then another against her forehead, and Villanelle visibly relaxes, melting back into the mattress at this soft treatment.

“Yes, but you’re different. The other women, I always thought that they talk too much. But you…I want you to tell me I’m pretty.” She pauses. Draws in a long breath, and on the exhale breathes a little more shakily. “I want you to tell me how good I’m being for you. And how good I’m making you feel. I want you to tell me Eve.”

“Oh-”

Eve kisses at her temple, over her closed eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, the spoilt jut of her chin, the set of her jaw, running one hand gently along her side, as Villanelle clutches at her body, her hold solid, as though perhaps she might float away completely without some anchor to ground her.

“You’re doing such a good job at being patient, and so pretty, pretty.” Eve hardly recognises her own words as she presses them into Villanelle’s neck.  
And a hot flush rises to Villanelle’s chest at the simple praise, she’s squirming, pulling her own slip up, up over her thighs to reveal some lacy scrap that could perhaps be classed as underwear. Eve thinks, head spinning, that perhaps she has never seen beauty before.

“Please touch me”

Her thumb pressing down, pressing back against Villanelle’s hipbone.

“God, fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

Villanelle’s body moves like the ocean against her, strong and uncontrolled. She breathes once, twice into Eve’s neck.

And. And.

Wet. Hot and wet and open and Villanelle is looking up at her, darkness pouring into her pupils, eyes blown wide.  
Villanelle is wet. So wet it takes Eve a moment to collect herself, a moment and a hot breath pressed against Villanelle’s collarbone to gain her bearings, to remember the countless times she’s touched herself like this.

She slides her fingers up, draws a tight circle, and tells herself to breathe.  
Villanelle is gasping, eyes closing, below her.

And Eve? Is altogether altered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk about you gays but personally i think the number 8 to tottenham court road is the sexiest place on the planet. and the 205 to paddington comes in a close second. actually the upcoming third chapter of this fic will just be a ranking of every london bus route from sexiest to least-sexy. i miss public transport. 
> 
> (or i’ll write some proper smut. lemme know which you prefer?)
> 
> im also hellolise on tumblr if u want to send complaints :)


	3. Chapter 3

_And Eve? Is altogether altered._

The changes come quickly. Rattling from between her ribs and surfacing to her skin, prickling into goosebumps as Villanelle twists the sheets in her closed fists. The feeling is bubbling. Rising and hot. Inevitably overflowing.  
And Villanelle?  
Villanelle is already spilling over.

She gasps wetly, a soft sound, somehow more akin to a sob than a moan, as Eve slip-slides lazy circles against her clit. Villanelle is so, so wet, so wet Eve feels a little lost. Untethered. And Villanelle is moving her legs against the mattress, spreading herself open for Eve as she moves her hand slowly beneath the pink pink pink lace of her underwear, waistband digging uncomfortably into her wrist. Villanelle’s eyes are closed and her lips are open, and each noise that escapes from between them is soft and high and a little surprised, as if she can’t quite understand how good she’s feeling.  
She’s making Villanelle feel good.

Feel so good her arousal is dripping, hot, against her fingertips.  
The thought makes Eve glow, hot, in the centre of her chest. And in her cunt.

As Villanelle melts back, warm and lazy, limbs slow as though underwater, against the mattress. Against Eve’s cheap, stained bedsheets. Eve vaguely wishes that it could be better, nicer, somehow different for them. That Villanelle might look nicer, or maybe just feel better, spread out under her on something silken, something with a thousand thread-count and champagne bubbling through her body. And then she loses her thoughts, almost loses herself, as Villanelle’s lips are parting and she breathes out “oh, oh, Eve-”

“Will you take this off?” Eve kneels above her, over her, and tugs at the hem of Villanelle’s pink slip, and it’s so soft, so thin, so undeniably expensive that she can barely feel it between her fingertips. The fabric runs through her hand like water. Villanelle’s eyes are opening, eyes darting down the length of Eve’s arm and settling where her other hand has stilled between her legs.

“No, you need to keep touching me!” Her voice is edging on panicked, the blissful softness of just a few seconds ago falling from her tightening muscles. Her hand darts out to clutch at Eve’s forearm, nails digging in sharply. The barest hint of the how dangerous she has the capacity to be.  
In response, Eve swipes at her clit once more, slower now, to pacify her and leans down to press a wet kiss to the blonde little damp baby hairs matted to Villanelle’s forehead. To calm her. To sweat seems so human.

Such a human thing to do.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, okay, I’ve got you-” she murmurs against Villanelle’s temple, and presses a long kiss against the white side of her white white neck. She shifts, and Villanelle twists her head away from her, eyebrows creasing and hips shifting.

A possibility, a chance. Drawn out in the tight lines of tendons running through Villanelle’s throat. There is something more than heady in the power she wields so, so easily over the most dangerous person she has ever met. It leaves Eve hot, throbbing, hands steady but head spinning.  
Villanelle whines, and Eve takes that as an invitation as she dips her fingertips a little lower, and presses a long kiss to Villanelle’s neck. She bites down and dips her fingers.

Her fingers.

She bites-

Almost inside her.

Villanelle is whining and squirming below her, gasping out and grabbing at her shoulder blades. She swears in four different languages, or maybe five. As Eve sucks a hickey high on her throat.  
Difficult to cover. Harder to ignore.  
Impossible to forget.

“Fuck, fuck me, fuck me, Eve please-”

She’s grabbing once more at Eve’s arm, clumsily attempting to guide her fingers inside her. And Eve feels hot, more than half drunk and more than half drunk on the power, on the glow of holding back. Teasing this beautiful girl, not letting her get off so easy, not letting her get off.

“Shhh, shhh-” she’s shushing into Villanelle’s ear and Villanelle whines in response, a sound Eve feels in her cunt. God, god, fuck she’s fucking wet, she’s fucking-

She’s supposed to be making Villanelle feel good.  
She starts to wriggle, moving down over Villanelle’s body as though pulled by some magnetic force, some shifting centre of gravity. Inevitable and unshakable, brimming over with the need to taste-

“No! Eve!” Villanelle is grabbing at her hair, the palms of her hands sticky with sweat and desperation.

“You…you don’t want me to-” Eve glances down the long, pale lines of Villanelle’s body. She’s searching for the right words. ‘Eat you out’ doesn’t feel quite right, won’t fit around her mouth, and ‘go down on you’ doesn’t describe precisely what she wants to do. Because what she wants is to put her tongue where Villanelle is wettest, and taste and taste and taste and taste until this beautiful girl shakes apart. “You don’t want me to do that?”

“I want you to stay with me. Here.”

There’s something in Villanelle’s voice that Eve has never heard before. Something new, something foreign, something shaking, ready to shake itself apart from the inside out. In some other life, it would scare Eve. Now, she wants to press her tongue against where it shakes most violently, and lick.

Villanelle’s eyes are damp with desperation, as Eve looks up at her, wetness pooling even as arousal blows out her pupils. Her dark eyelashes are clinging together with unshed tears, as Eve rises over her once more.

“What else do you want, baby?” Eve whispers. She feels the way Villanelle reacts to her words, feels Villanelle’s cunt start to clench around the very tips of her fingers. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough. Her hand falls away from its vice-like grip on Eve’s arm, and she arches her back as she grabs once more at the bedsheets.

“You’re supposed to put your fingers inside me now, Eve. I want you to fuck me-”

“What else?”

“I want you to fuck me until you’re all I can think about.”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. Villanelle is wriggling a little below her. Impatient.

“What else do you think about?”

“Other things. I think about lots of things.” Her voice is low, petulant, the shadow of a pout hanging around the very corners of her lips.

“Yeah, sure-” Eve slides two fingers inside her, easy easy easy, so fucking easy, and watches as Villanelle creates a new shape with her mouth below her. Gasping at something formless, something shapeless. Eve tugs once more at the pinkness of her slip. “There” she says, her voice soft, a little teasing. There, you got what you wanted. She drags her fingertips forwards, slow slow slow, until Villanelle’s fucking writhing. She tugs the slip up, over the white softness of Villanelle’s belly. Up and over the curving scar Eve had pressed into her gut, once upon a time. The sight of it hits Eve hard. Directly between her legs. And then, “will you take this off now?”  
Villanelle doesn’t respond, she simply sits forwards.

The muscles running under the tightness of her belly shift deliciously. Eve feels as though she might pass out. But instead she fucks her fingers deeper, until Villanelle is gasping and grasping at her sloping shoulders, halfway in her lap.

“Oh, oh, oh-” Villanelle’s pink lips are open and her eyes are too, now. Blown wide, blown dark, blown and bleeding out and most of the way to desperate.

“Take this off for me, please-” Their faces are so close together, Eve can feel Villanelle’s sticky breath close against her face. Can taste her want in her gasps and read it in the tight line of her brows. She scrunches her face up a little, and Eve fucks harder-  
Fucks the petulance out of her.

She grabs at the hem of her slip, her hands loose and inarticulate. Glowing, pleased and wet at her own obedience. Pulls it up up and up and up and up and up.  
The scar Eve had pressed into the pristine skin of her belly is only slightly red. Raised and red and white and red and Eve burns to press her tongue against it. To see if Villanelle would gasp, half-surprised, as she did when she slid the blade home-  
If the noise would be the same, or somehow the opposite. Somehow inverted.

And up.

Her ribs cut curving, shifting, restless shadows through her torso. The little upside-down v at the bottom of her sternum pushed delicately into her chest.

And up.

And-

Her nipples are pink and hard and surrounded by such softeness, as Eve reaches out, to run her knuckle against her. Villanelle mewls, pleased to be touched so softly. Her breasts are full and soft and Eve aches to put her mouth on her, press a darkening hickey onto the softness of her breast and then take her nipple into her mouth, run between her tongue and her teeth, lick and lick and lick and lick and-

Villanelle is flushed, red high around her throat and pink down to her chest. Flushed with arousal, half-glowing with want. She shifts into Eve’s touch.

And up, over her head, tossing her hair back down over the delicate lines of her shoulders as she wrings the material through her fingers for a moment, running between her fingertips like hot pink water, bubblegum flavoured silk, before dropping it down to the sheets beside them.  
They’re almost face to face now, Villanelle’s thighs bracketing Eve’s knees as she half-kneels above her, the pink pink lace of her underwear cutting pink pink lines into the flesh of her thighs as she tries to spread her legs wider-

Face to face. Chest to chest. Nothing to separate them but the fabric of-

Villanelle’s nails scrabbling at Eve’s back, not pausing for any ghost of permission before tugging hard and immediate and fast and frustrated, her t-shirt up and over her head.

“There-” she gasps as Eve’s hair falls down once more, and she buries both her hands in it, grabbling greedily to wind her curls between her fingers. “Yessss-” She hisses as her hips move harder against Eve’s fingertips, her wetness dripping down, down onto Eve’s wrist as she moves. Onto the sheets. Mumbling a garbled prayer of “god fuck god fuck shit-”

Ancient and unholy and she moves. Down, and down harder, grinding her clit shamelessly against the heel of Eve’s palm-

With a barely-human sound, Villanelle half-collapses against Eve’s body. Falling into Eve, falling into herself, folding herself away and into Eve’s bare chest. She feels so small, so fragile as Eve winds her free arms around her heaving body. She can feel her ribs rise and fall, contracting and relaxing. Her breath comes like the tide. Eve hardly feels as though she is breathing, as if perhaps Villanelle is gasping out for the both of them. Breast to breast and rib to rib, mouth to mouth, they press against one another. One and the same.

Eve’s entire world narrows down to Villanelle and her grinding hips and the broken gasps she breathes against her lips and the noise of her own fingers pressing over and over and over and over into where she is wettest.

Villanelle tries to kiss her, tries her absolute best, valiantly biting at her lower lip, pressing her lips almost chastely against Eve’s over and over, and then goes back in tongue-first. Sloppy and unpolished and desperate. Wanting and whining.

“T-t…god fuck Eve fuck, tell me-”  
And Eve whispers mindlessly directly against Villanelle’s lips, well-bitten and wet with her own saliva, as Villanelle gratefully swallows her words down. Swallows as though starving for some meagre praise.

“God baby you feel so fucking good you’re so fucking wet god fuck are you going to come for me Villanelle?”  
And, just like that, easy and lazy and very almost crying, she falls.

As Eve’s wet tongue trips over the third syllable of her name.

Tightening and oh-so pretty and mewling an almost-sob against Eve’s words. Against Eve’s lips.

She comes like that. Skin and skin and skin and the waistband of her underwear digging uncomfortably into the back of Eve’s wrist. It seems to last forever, she’s gasping and fucking herself and coming and coming and coming and coming. Around Eve’s fingers, tight and hot and she’s grasping at Eve’s shoulders, whining.

And then.

And then.

Villanelle kisses and presses and licks into Eve’s mouth, tongue lazy and body loose from orgasm. Lips tasting like pleasure and once upon a time pink wine. Their shared ribs carry hot stale air between them, gushing into Villanelle’s still-heaving lungs. Time seems to stop and start around them, unsteady between kisses. Until light could be divided from darkness, and sewn back together, and the thrumming rhythm of the overground tracks rips through the seams.

Villanelle laughs, both high and low and frantic and soft. And moves to kiss Eve once more, pressing her back and down and apart.

Eve bites down, and opens her mouth, and is thrown from the garden of Eden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chapter not sponsored by transport for london*
> 
> anyway transport for london has fucked me more times than you can possibly imagine but she has never turned me on more than that bus scene did.


End file.
